Loveless in London
by gilenagile
Summary: Max, Logan and Historical Romance. How about some AG (Alternate Genre) in this category. Chapter 4, The Best Laid Plans...
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer**: Cameron and Eglee own Dark Angel; no copyright infringement intended. Shakespeare has been dead a long time, so I reckon he won't care if I embroil him in this mess.  


**Category**:  Alternate Genre, if there is such a thing—in this case, Historical Romance.  


**Summary**:  M and L in early 17th century London. Can true love withstand the test of time, not to mention my attempt at Romance writing?  


**Title**:  Loveless in London  


**Author**: gilenagile  


**Rating**: R  


**Episode Reference**: None, but written in the spirit of Season One.  


**Feedback**:  Very much appreciated, but if you're calling to report a historical inaccuracy you'll probably have to take a number.  


**A/N**: I've decided to try DA in the Historical Romance genre because I am a sick person and because I'll get to use the term "throbbing manhood" in a sentence (although it won't be in this chapter—you've got to work up to a phrase like that). Of course, that presupposes there will be more chapters and I'm not at all sure we'll survive this one.

Title:  Loveless in London  


Chapter 1:  A Man's World 

"O, my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!" Tears streamed down the maiden's ivory face, as she clenched and unclenched her hands, paroxysms of grief and fear shaking her fragile frame. 

Max flung the rotten tomato and smiled as it made contact with the blonde wig, knocking it askew, and the fair Ophelia stumbled off blindly into the wings. What a wimp. What the hell was Will thinking?  She'd certainly let him know what _she_ was thinking after the play ended. 

*****

"Bloody rabble. If I ever discover that tomato-throwing thug who has been knocking my heroines senseless during performances loosing a pound of flesh will be the least of his troubles…" The young playwright stopped his tirade abruptly as Max caught his eye. She stood perfectly still, arms folded, face impassive, as if waiting for a child to finish a foolish tantrum.

"Get thee to a nunnery?" Her voice was low and even and, she noted with satisfaction, causing him to look suddenly defensive. "To a nunnery? What kind of woman would put up with that garbage?" Slowly, she circled him. "You're a disgrace to the common people, portraying a woman like she has the backbone of an eel and the intelligence of a sack of flour."

"But, my raven haired beauty, I portray only the characters I see. Anyway, you can hardly describe Queen Gertrude in that fashion." 

"Well our options seem to be sweet and stupid or powerful and a witch. You're a real genius Shakespeare."

"That he is."

They both swung around to see the source of this admiration. A fair-haired nobleman towered over them both, dark blue intelligent eyes locking on Max's. She briefly took in the high cheekbones, well-defined jaw and perfect teeth revealed by a pleasant smile. She spent more time examining the expensive clothing: the loose silk shirt draped over a broad chest, form- fitting britches clinging to muscular thighs, well polished leather boots planted solidly apart in a confident stance. She smiled demurely, her bosom rising as she inhaled deeply. This stranger positively exuded—wealth.

She was momentarily distracted by Will glaring at her and shaking his head surreptitiously from side to side, his eyes full of warning. Max smiled sweetly and, she hoped, stupidly. "Introduce me to your friend master Shakespeare. It would be an honor for a lowly maiden such as I to learn the name of such a noble and handsome lord."

Will rolled his eyes as his wealthy patron turned to focus all his attention on the woman before him. Max engaged in some further breast-heaving, noting with satisfaction that the man's eyes were drawn downward. Men were so predicable and easy to manipulate. Still, Will had better hurry up with the niceties or she would pop out of her low cut bodice and the stranger's eyes out of his head. 

"Logan, allow me to introduce Maxine. She is my…." Max coughed loudly. Will may be a dab hand with the written word, but his quick brain was frequently upstaged by an even quicker mouth. How was he about to describe her role in his life? Body guard? Accurate perhaps. Indeed, since they had met a few months ago he had had little trouble with the debt collectors who had previoulsy made his life a misery. She had managed to keep them off his back _and_ without ending up on hers. She felt satisfaction at her ability to wind those boorish bullies around her little finger like the London fog around a lamppost. Of course, her ability to land a killer right hook didn't hurt either. 

"She's a…." Another cough. He wouldn't say "thief," would he? Even Will, pumped up on the success of yet another play and with his obvious familiarity with this man, wouldn't be that thoughtless. However, he was a man—no point in taking chances. Not that her thievery really played a part in his life, although he didn't object to the occasional fruits of her illegal activities: a pitcher of good ale shared among friends, a nice meal at a pleasant tavern. She smiled indulgently at him, all in all he was good company, a friend even--something she had never before had in a man--and if the elevated circles in which he sometimes moved allowed her access to the rich and powerful she had always chosen her victims with care. So far, she had deemed only the most egotistical and ruthless of males worthy of her light fingered attentions, not the sort Will had ever counted as friend. She sighed. Maybe this stranger would escape a nighttime visit to his abode. She looked at him reappraising, taking in the costly and elegant cut of the jacket draping his wide shoulders—on the other hand, maybe not.

"I'm milord Shakespeare's maid. It is my fault he is babbling like a newborn. I fear lack of food has made him stup… er, lightheaded. Why do I not run to his abode and prepare a late repast for you fine gentlemen to share."

Will gulped, his panicked look communicating the hope she just intended to assault Logan in a dark alley on the way home and not actually cook for him. She smiled reassuringly at him, admiring his loyalty to his friends.

"A meal prepared by one as fair as you would be a pleasure to consume."       

Max smirked, stupidly she hoped. Filthy rich _and_ a womanizer, this stranger was rapidly heading to the top of her list of potential marks.

"No, no. Logan and I have things to discuss—like his use of the English language for instance." Glaring at his friend, Will took the young man by the shoulder, attempting to usher him out of the now emptying theatre and out of Max's sight. 

"Milord Cale is a poet?" Will sighed and made a scatting motion behind his back to Max who was nonchalantly following them into the damp night streets of Southwark.

"No. I…I used to dabble…not even dabble…just scribble…." Logan had stopped and turned to her again, his manly stance shifting somewhat uncomfortably at this revelation. 

Will grabbed his arm, propelling him toward a nearby tavern of ill repute. An establishment in which any respectable maiden would be ashamed to be seen. Max followed them in. 

"Tell me of your dabbles, pardon me sir, your scribbles." Max sat on a vacant bench at a wooden table, having dispatched a lingering drunk to the straw covered floor with a ladylike swish of her hips.

The rich lord looked uncomfortable, whether at the subject of the conversation or at the approach of Count Drimsdale--the most obnoxious, but unfortunately most poverty stricken, member of the upper crust of London society—she was not sure.

"Look it's Will Shakespeare fresh from another triumph at the Globe. Entertaining the uneducated masses in fine style, I hear."

"You're drunk, Dimsdale." Will placed two mugs of ale on the table. Max chose to ignore the not so subtle hint, focusing instead on the wobbling nobleman in front of her.

"Maybe drunk enough to appreciate that drivel you call writing." The unabashed leer Max was being subjected to suggested that wasn't all he was appreciating.

"Drivel the queen of England herself has come to see." Logan's voice was harsh with outrage.

"Well, if it isn't Lord Cale himself. Still hanging out with the literary set, I see. Although I use that term in the loosest sense."

"Yes, but can you spell it?" Max squelched a grin at Cale's retort; it was never a good idea to warm up to a prospective victim.

"Your uncle did the English speaking world a favor when he put an end to your literary aspirations and sent you off to Paris to study that new-fangled foolishness they call 'science'. Except now maybe you'll entertain us not with tales of love and such silliness, but with tales of the world being round." Drimsdale voice was lost amid the raucous laughter this prospect evoked in the drunken crowd.

"Face it Cale, you and your dead-beat pal here write like women." A collective intake of breath replaced the howls of merriment. In the dead silence Logan stood and walked up to the red faced Count. Drimsdale leaned toward him whispering something Max strained unsuccessfully to hear. She relaxed as whatever message he was attempting to relay to Cale was abruptly cut off, along with his air supply and the lecherous look he had continued to direct at her, as Logan hauled him by his collar out of the inn.

Max sighed and added to the list of attributes applicable to her new acquaintance. Rich, powerful, womanizing and ready to engage in a brawl at the least assault on his pride. Definitely a male worthy of her professional attentions.

"You've got that look in your eyes, Max." Will sipped his ale and looked uneasy. "Look, Logan is a good man. Maybe too passionate about what he believes in, but that is a fault I would glad be guilty of."

"I take it _you_ never criticized his writing."

"Dimsdale's a bore and a philistine and Logan had potential as a writer until he burned all his work and went to Europe to study science." 

"Remind me not criticize his mathematical equations either."

Will appeared not to hear her, his eyes looking off into the distance. "What a waste of talent. He could be the perfect Renaissance man—a true blend of art and science." Max couldn't restrain a snort at the concept of a perfect man. Will was too lost in his thoughts to notice. "The heart of a romantic and the mind of a man of science. Yet, alas, in matters of love, a disaster."

Max sat back and sipped Lord Logan Cale's mug of ale. He certainly was perfect—the perfect mark. She closed her eyes and started to plan her course action, one more step toward her goal of being a lady of independent means in a world where men called all the shots. She felt her heart harden along with her resolve. Years surviving alone on the streets of London had taught her that women of her class were considered good only for serving or whoring and she had to take what she was denied the right to earn. The likes of Logan Cale would be the means to that end. 

She frowned as she weighed her options. Clearly, Cale was a man of intelligence, and she should proceed with caution. "In matters of love a disaster." Will's words echoed in her ears as she took another swig of ale and resolved to use this weakness to her advantage.


	2. The Best Made Plans

**Disclaimer**: Cameron and Eglee own Dark Angel; no copyright infringement intended. 

**Summary**: M and L in early 17th century London. Can true love withstand the test of time, not to mention my attempt at Romance writing? 

**A/N**: Many thanks for the feedback, but you should know better than to encourage me. In this chapter I make if as far as "sculpted chest." Hey, it's only chapter 2—let's at least have some pretence of literary justification for what's about to arise in chapter 3. 

Title:  Loveless in London 

Chapter 2: The Best Made Plans…

Logan stepped into the parry and instantly felt his shoulder muscles scream in protest. Damn Drimsdale! He should have left him in the drunken heap in which he had landed after Logan hauled him out of the tavern the previous evening instead of lugging the ignorant bastard home. Alone in the dark city street, the count would have been easy prey for thieves and murderers. Not that he didn't deserve to be taught a lesson after the lewd remarks he had made about Maxine. He just hoped he had interrupted Drimsdale's comments before they had reached the young maiden's ears.

"Aaarrggghhhh. Dammit Bling, the fencing vests aren't made of lead."

"From the way you are moving this morning one would almost swear they were. Perhaps milord's thoughts are not on the bout." The fencing master dodged gracefully to the side as Logan's blade swished through the air in a hasty counter attack. "So, who is she?" The flash of steel, as his blade cut through a shaft of sunlight streaming through the large windows of the fencing room, was almost as blinding as the immense African's broad smile. "The only time I manage two points in as many minutes against you is when you are lovesick. Now, focus." 

Logan lunged forward, dropping one hand to the floor and darting under the oncoming foil. Stepping back, Bling recovered quickly and moved back into the en garde position with the grace of a panther. Stiff muscles forgotten, Logan launched into a new attack, the blades sending shards of light reflecting off the mirror-lined walls. 

"That's better. Focus." 

Focus. A word Bling repeated endlessly in each training session since the morning, two years ago, when Logan had failed to avoid an obvious move and the side of the fencing master's foil had sliced into his neck. A fraction more to the left and he wouldn't have had to endure the tirade the shaken man had launched at him. Not that he had cared; a fraction more to the left would have been a mercy on that particular morning. Although, he had doubted his broken heart would have been capable of pumping enough blood to make the wound fatal. No, Valerie had bled him dry—body, soul and wallet—before informing him over dinner, and her usual one and a half bottles of wine, that she was leaving him for an Italian count with a large bank account and, judging by the size of his Sicilian vineyards, and even larger wine cellar.

The swords tangled in a lightening parry and Logan allowed his blade to glide along his opponent's, his body moving forward into the attack.

"So, you did learn something in Paris." Bling's voice boomed in delight above the clash of steel on steel.

He had learned a lot during his two year exile in Europe, as his heart had scarred over and become just another item that the new world of science was beginning to understand; an efficient muscle at the center of the human circulatory system, not the seat of emotion and love and such nonsense.

Logan countered Bling's diagonal parry with an expert riposte that backed the ebony skinned man dangerously close to the wall of mirrors. His swordplay, along with his intellect had improved greatly in the free-thinking capital of France. As had his love life. No more strings and attachments, just romantic interludes with free spirited, educated, independent women—women English society would never produce, at least not in his lifetime.  

"Point!"

Bling raised his hands in acknowledgement of the hit and smiled at his young student. "Excellent form, it seems your new life agrees with you."

Logan returned Bling's salute and the two men turned to exit the salle. His new life did agree with him. He was a man in charge of his own destiny in a new world, the rules of which were now beginning to be examined and understood: a world with no room for vague and improvable concepts such as love. He just needed to focus, focus on what was real, not on the beats the center of his circulatory system seemed to have skipped when he had laid eyes on that beautiful, olive skinned, raven haired maiden with Shakespeare last evening. No, that was just idle fancy in a moment of distraction. 

He laughed as Bling threw a congratulatory arm around his shoulder and relished his hard earned victory. No room for distraction in the life of Logan Cale; man of science and more than adequate swordsman. At least Maxine would be a distraction easily avoided. He, unlike Drimsdale and his ilk, would never use his rank to seek out and take advantage a defenseless, innocent maid. He could safely ignore an isolated heart skipping incident, which was probably just the result of indigestion anyway. He would never see Maxine again.

"Some water milord?" The soles of his boots screeched to a halt on the gleaming wooden floor. 

She stood in the doorway casually holding a serving tray, decked out in the garb of the Cale family servants, olive skinned, dark haired and—oh crap—heart stopping.

*****

Max smiled sweetly and attempted to examine her master through respectfully downcast eyes. Damn, yet another maid skill to learn. She would have sighed, but-- as Normal, the pain-in-the-neck and ever present head servant, had already informed her three times that morning—that was not actually a sanctioned maid skill, even if it was "the only bloody thing she was good at."  However she, as would any woman worth her salt, had felt justified in sighing over emptying chamber pots and airing out bed linens. Not to mention scouring breakfast pots and pans and feeding master Logan's Irish wolf hound a meal that made her meager breakfast look like left over pig slop. Indeed, she wasn't entirely sure it hadn't been left over pig slop. As cook had been busy explaining since her arrival that morning, in language that even the Royal Navy would have frowned upon, the stately abode of Lord and Lady Jonas Cale was not know for its enlightened treatment of its serving staff. Max sighed.

Not that master Logan was guilty of any ignorance in his treatment of the household underlings. Cook had waxed on ad nauseam about the young gentleman's kindness and fair treatment of the unfortunate serving class in his luxurious and decadent home. Why, master Logan had gone as far as to defend Max's predecessor from the lecherous clutches of Lord Jonas himself. An act which had not endeared him to his filthy rich uncle. Of course, master Logan had also defended the keys of the liquor cabinet from the clutches of Normal, thus ensuring the continued supply of Cook's nighttime nip of, purely medical, ninety percent proof gin. Cook's beady eyes grew watery and soft as she explained how the sun, moon and stars positively radiated out of master Logan's arse. Still, Max had to admit as her eyes flitted surreptitiously to mirror behind the immobile and apparently speechless nobleman towering above her, a damn fine arse it was. 

Quickly, she gathered her senses and resumed her reconnaissance mission of the Cale home; nothing of interest in the fencing salle. Except for the glistening chest hairs escaping the opening of that loose fitting white linen shirt and the expanse of sculpted chest the fine fabric clinging to sweat sheened skin did nothing to conceal. The water pitcher and mugs clinked dangerously. Stop it! Concentrate on the job at hand, not on some feeble minded girlish fancy. Downcast eyes remember. She was a maid in training and a thief casing the perfect cache. That toned abdomen, the solid hips, the powerful thighs clad in form fitting pants-- that were impossible to avoid at she innocently averted her gaze downward—were mere distractions. __

_Clink! Clink!_

A strong hand steadied the tray in her faltering grasp and she felt heat burning her cheeks as long fingers brushed hers. Good God, she was an embarrassment to the thieving profession and Logan Cale was a…a wealthy, indulged, upper-class, chauvinistic male. Just a man, a man she could handle like any other. She grabbed the tray and with a toss of tangled curls stomped from the room. She was pretty sure tossing and stomping weren't high on the list of maidly attributes, a list Logan Cale could shove, along with the universe according to Cook, up his sainted behind.


	3. Maid to Order

**Disclaimer**: Cameron and Eglee own Dark Angel; no copyright infringement intended.   
**Summary**: M and L in early 17th century London. Can true love withstand the test of time, not to mention my attempt at Romance writing?  
**Rating**: R.  
**A/N**: We're getting there. Damn plot and motivation. I'm going to do away with them in the next chapter, I promise. 

                          
Title:  Loveless in London  
Chapter 3: Maid to Order

She was going to kill him; slowly twist that little starched collar until he choked on one final inane comment.

"And get that surly look of your face wench. Lady Margo won't be as tolerant of your churlishness as me."

_Thud!_ Max kneaded the bread dough as if it had committed some horrendous crime against her. What a moron Normal was; it was I, not me and murderous, not surly.

_Thud!_ She pounded viciously as the head servant trotted off to make some other maid's life a misery. It had been two weeks; two mind numbingly boring, back-breakingly arduous weeks of slaving away in the Cale house. She should have been off with the loot ages ago. 

_Thud! _If she had just resisted that analogy between Normal and the hindquarters of a wild boar, she wouldn't have been relegated to the status of downstairs maid. She could have been merrily emptying chamber pots and jewelry boxes on the upper floor and have made a sizeable contribution to her "woman of independent means" fund.

_Thud!_ Instead she was working for a pittance and waiting for an opportunity to avoid eagle-eyed, omnipresent Normal. She couldn't even sneak upstairs at night with the damn wolfhound lolloping around, ready to raise the roof at the first sign of suspicious thief-like behavior from unsanctioned second floor visitors. 

_Thud! Thud! Thud!_ Then there was Lord Jonas who, she suspected, would be only too glad to invite her upstairs, if his wife ever let the randy old bastard out of her sight. She ceased pounding long enough to gag at the thought of being a guest, however briefly, in Jonas's boudoir. Still, that was no longer a disgusting possibility. The senior Cales were leaving today to visit even more senior Cales in the charming town of Something-on-Some-River-or-Other.

Also holding her in mid-pound was the image of Lady--major-pain-in-the-behind--Margo's jewelry boxes. She had spied them on the first, and totally disastrous, morning of her career in the Cale residence. If only she had overcome her foibles and brained the sweet and innocent chambermaid with that handy chamber pot, she could have tucked a small fortune in precious stones into her petticoats and got the hell out of there. At times like this, she wondered why she didn't just forget her plan, cut her losses, and hit the road again. _THUD!_

"I think you've killed it." 

A boyish grin crinkled the classic features of Logan Cale as he grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl at the other end of the enormous oak table. But that grin was the only boyish thing about him. Max stood still and assessed the major obstacle to her, previously, foolproof strategy. Masculinity positively radiated from every pore of his powerful body; a body that was always out of range of her conniving clutches. 

What was it with this man?  He seemed totally immune to the maidly eye-fluttering, curtseying, and fawning that the egos of your average nobleman positively feasted on. Even stage two of her usual modus operandi had no effect, except to make their brief encounters even briefer and more infrequent. All her best moves—the modest hand across her cleavage as she bent down to fill his port glass after dinner; her graceful sashay down the length of the fencing salle when she brought a pitcher of water for the sweaty combatants; a flash of ankle as she modestly hitched up her skirts when she passed him in the rain-drenched courtyard—were for naught. He would politely acknowledged her presence and promptly busy himself with more urgent matters.

Her hands fisted on the bread dough. She had charmed the pants off better men than he. Just the promise of an intimate encounter was enough to lure more powerful and wealthy men than Logan Cale to clandestine, nighttime appointments with Max Gueverra and a convenient blunt object. Not that she ever inflicted any serious damage--except to their pocket books--or let them inflict themselves on her. She could handle this man minus his pants with her eyes closed. Her eyes closed.

"Maxine."

"What?" Abruptly, she dropped the dough, or most of it at least, and took a step back. 

"Are you ill? Your face is flushed and your eyes are glassy. Perhaps you should sit for a while."

"No, no. I'm fine," as long as he kept himself and his pants right where he was. No, no, that wasn't the plan; but then neither was the rush of blood to her face at the thought of a being alone with a semi naked Logan. She averted her eyes from his intense stare, praying his many talents didn't include mind reading.

He was striding toward her now, his eyes filled with concern. She backed up some more as a new wave of heat washed her already burning cheeks. "I'm fine really. I…I'm just…" babbling like a complete idiot. Pull yourself together woman. He's just a mark--a handsome, charming, gentlemanly mark—and you're the one calling the shots. She pulled herself up to her full height, eyes level with his chest.

"You seem nervous, ill at ease. As you have since you arrived here. My uncle hasn't …hasn't done anything to make you feel that way, has he?" 

"N-n-n-n-o." Damn, now she was stammering. She prided herself on her quick thinking and composure in the most trying of circumstances. However, concern and chivalry from a wealthy man was not a circumstance she had had to deal with before.

"If he has, you can tell me and I will deal with it. You have nothing to fear in this household."

Except you. His hands were on her shoulders as his eyes searched hers for the truth. The truth. The truth was she was acting like a girl with a silly infatuation. She had had those before, had even enjoyed a couple of romps with young lads who made her laugh, murmured pleasant words in her ear as they tumbled together in the sheets, and pledged their undying love as she eventually said her goodbyes. Sweet and uncomplicated boys whom she hoped found nice girls to marry and build their lives with. 

It was an infatuation; easily passed up if she put her mind to it. She tried to ignore the touch of his hand on her elbow, a touch that warmed her more than the roaring fire burning in the hearth of the stone-floored kitchen. He guided her to one of the rough chairs pulled up to the table. His breathing was rapid. "If he has hurt you I'll…he has no right to take advantage of a serving girl."

A serving girl?  That's what she was--all she was--to a man of his rank. She pulled her arm away, as rage at her own stupidity and weakness brought a fresh rush of blood to her face. "I can take care of myself, thank you _sir_." He winced as she spat out the last word, and a twinge of satisfaction bolstered the hardness growing in her chest. 

"I meant no disrespect. I…I wanted to make sure that…that…"

She allowed herself the trace of a smile at his distress. "I have no need of a man to protect me." Setting her hands firmly on her hips, she met his bemused eyes. "_If_ I am to be taken advantage of the decision will be entirely mine, milord."

He laughed, threw back his head and laughed with delight. Even through the anger, presently rendering her speechless, she couldn't miss the genuine pleasure in his face. Well she'd wipe that grin off his face, boyish or not. The slap was going to be hard and an action of hers that he would finally have to sit up and take notice of or, if she landed the blow just right, lay down and take notice of. 

"OOOOOoohhhh!" She shrieked in frustration, as her doughy hands clung stubbornly to her skirt and in surprise as he reached under her arms and scooped her up, swirling her around, his laughter singing in her ears. 

"Maxine, you are a woman the like of whom I never dreamed I would meet in this antiquated land. A woman with spirit and a mind free of the stifling rules of English society."

"And you sir, are a typical, self-absorbed, ignorant male."

"Typical? You condemn my entire gender?"

"Not without just cause. Now put me down at once. I have work to do and I take my professional duties very seriously." She gathered up any remaining shreds of dignity as he released her and purposely began rubbing the dough off her hands. She had to think. Damn him, he befuddled her like no other man she had met. Irritating and disconcerting as he was, she had to rely on him for access to the bedrooms. That or do the stupid guard dog in and she refused to raise a hand to an innocent animal. 

"Every man is not as you describe."

"Perhaps, just every nobleman then. You are all too spoiled to look beyond your privileged little lives."

"Allow me to prove you wrong."

Ah, there was order in the universe and the proverbial fly always walked right into the spider's web. She stood squarely in front of him, her stance a challenge. "Break some of the rules of your world; the rules all those weak women you speak of are so fond of accepting." He raised a questioning eyebrow and she responded with a smile, a satisfied smile. "You are a man of noble birth. I am a maid. You give orders. I obey. You make decisions. I make bread."

"You want to make the decisions for a change."

Max nodded and wondered how he would react to her decision to invite herself to his room tonight. She really hoped his social convictions outweighed his ingrained sense of chivalry. Trust her to pick the only nobleman in London worthy of the name. Still he couldn't say no to her now. Just to be sure, she would have his word to respect her wish.

"Then decide what you would like for dinner tonight and I will cook it for you. Science isn't the only thing I studied in Paris."

"_What_?" That wasn't the plan. A decent nobleman, and a bloody cook. Could her luck get any worse? "You…you can't. Cook would have a fit."

"Then we'll get rid of her." He paced, his brow furrowed in concentration. 

Max hoped he would trip on the uneven flagstones and knock some chauvinistic sense into that messed up mind. Damn the French—men cooking—what other weirdness had this young Englishman been exposed to.

"Ah-ha." 

She doubted this was a good sign.

"I'll get Shakespeare to invite her to the play tonight."

Max looked doubtful.

"The play _and_ an evening at the tavern." He looked very pleased with his suggestion.

"Cook _and_ all the servants." 

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't want them to think you're playing favorites. It could be awkward for me later."

"I suppose we will have the house to ourselves then." 

And I will have you to myself. Logan Cale was about to experience a lesson in equality, the likes of which he had never dreamed.


	4. The Best Laid Plans

**Disclaimer**: Cameron and Eglee own Dark Angel; no copyright infringement intended.   
**Summary**: M and L in early 17th century London. Can true love withstand the test of time, not to mention my attempt at Romance writing?  
**Rating**: R.  
**A/N**: Ooops! I may have got a little carried away with this romance genre thing. Candlelight, dinner, amber glows, petticoats, and fresh fruit; guess we'll see if the plot survives, not to mention making it to another chapter.   
Thanks to Fin Tuscany for suggesting an investigation into the clothing of the day. Amazing the English ever survived all that multiple layering. On the other hand, it certainly wasn't a time for purchasing shares in Hanes.

Title:  Loveless in London  
Chapter 8: The Best Laid Plans…

It was perfect. The aroma of rosemary and garlic wafted through the warmth of the kitchen as the fire crackled in the hearth and candles bathed the room in an amber glow. The chicken, tender and golden, lay on the platter awaiting the thickening sauce laden with vegetable that Logan was absently stirring. 

How such perfection had come about the man leaning over the Dutch oven on the stovetop had no idea. While chopping, trussing, glazing and a myriad of other tasks had occupied his hands his mind had been elsewhere. His mind had been on Max, or rather Max had been on his mind; one having long since dominated the other.

Rationality evaporated the moment she drifted, unbidden, into his thoughts and his heart and senses leaped into the void with the enthusiasm of child bounding from the house on the first warm day of spring. Moreover, while his mind was somersaulting, his typically coordinated and cooperative body assumed the grace of an adolescent boy when she made an appearance. He only had to sense her entrance into the fencing sale and Bling was assured an easy point. The swish of her petticoats as she passed him in the courtyard was enough to send him tripping over his feet on the cobblestones. The hint of a smile playing on her lips as she poured the port at dinner condemned another shirt to wine stained oblivion. He just hoped his efforts to appear suave, preoccupied and unaffected by her presence were enough to cover up his embarrassment at his complete disorientation.

How such a small package of beauty and spirit could leave a previously self assured, even-tempered, intelligent man in such a state was beyond him. It was a new experience, perplexing and unnerving but undeniably pleasant. While every brain cell still functioning screamed at him to keep his distance the rest of his stupefied being wanted to grab her hand, drag her away from the stifling confines of this class ridden society, pull her into his arms and explore the fire dancing behind those huge, mysterious eyes.

Instead, they would eat, make pleasant conversation and he would all the time remember that she was a commoner, he a member of the nobility and the only relationship they could ever have would be secret and without a future. He set two places side by side on the kitchen table in front of the roaring fire. He had seen men of his rank using serving girls, taking what they wanted without having to offer anything in return; not able to offer anything even if they had wished. Their worlds were too far apart to ever allow a relationship based on equality. Carefully he moved his place setting to the opposite side of the wide table.

Not that Max would even be interested in a relationship. Was that the attraction? He had long ago become bored with the attentions of women eager to throw themselves at him and his fortune. He wished, not for the first time, that she were a woman of noble birth whom he could court and who could tell him to go to hell if she wanted. In which case he would pursue her relentlessly until he understood the power she held over him. He wiped a hand over his brow trying to banish the image of Max, eyes ablaze, hands on her shapely hips, her soft skin flushed with anger standing defiantly before him in the kitchen. He returned the bottle of wine he had set out on the table to the wine rack. Tonight he needed to remain clearheaded and in charge of his emotions and the situation. 

He returned to the oven and ladled the thickened sauce and vegetables over the chicken. Dinner was ready. 

*****

Max stopped outside the door, her body relishing the warmth seeping through the doorway and her mouth watering in response to the tantalizing culinary smells drifting along with it. She held herself back and took a deep, settling breath; composer was imperative. This was her last chance to get what she wanted. Everything had to be perfect. 

Restless hands checked her hair. Her curls tumbled, soft and silky, onto her shoulders; shining darkly against the gleaming white of her newly washed shift. A modest bodice covered her from ample breast to slim waist and her starched and pressed petticoats rustled primly when she moved. Again she breathed deeply, enjoying the smell of clean linen overlaying the hint of delicate perfume on her skin.

It had taken her ages to fill the cast iron tub with kettles of water and even longer to find and select the necessary toiletries to transform her into this soft, seductive, vision of femininity. Margo's room being inaccessible, she had targeted the next best groomed individual in the household, Normal, and discovered a baffling array of oils and fragrant potions arranged neatly in his room in between life sized portraits of Queen Elizabeth and Niccolo Machievelli and next to a large collection of Dutch clogs. In her haste, she had resisted her natural inclination to snoop further, promising herself a quick pry into his closets between dealing with Master Cale and Margo's jewelry boxes and her subsequent flight out of London.

Tonight her plans would go like clockwork: dinner, flirtation, predictable male reaction, trip upstairs past pesky wolfhound, temporarily debilitating blow to the head, thievery and quick get-away. Perfect. She should net enough from this job to begin a new life, the life of independence for which she had so long yearned.

He was setting the platter on the table as she entered the room, his jacket discarded and the light from the fire playing on the folds of the loose shirt failing to disguise the well-defined muscles beneath. She smiled as he looked up, struck by the depth of color in his eyes. A trick of the candlelight no doubt. She hesitated as those eyes smiled in response and reacted appreciatively to her appearance. 

Abruptly she broke eye contact and walked around the table until she stood beside him. "So, what's for dinner?" 

"Coq au Vin. I thought you might like it. Old family recipe. You look … nice."

Her smile turned sweet and playful. My, if the man wasn't babbling already. "And you milord, look very handsome." Too handsome and way too distracting. She'd better focus and get a move on. "I see you didn't use all the wine on the bird." She yanked the bottle of burgundy from the nearby wine rack and gave it to him to deal with. Alcohol was always a useful accompaniment to seduction. 

He pulled the chair out for her to sit and busied himself uncorking the bottle. She watched as he set the glasses on the table, trying to ignore the pang in her insides as he leaned close to pour the crimson liquid and his masculine scent mixed with the deep aroma of the old wine. Occupying herself with the food, she could hear his solid footsteps on the stone floor as he moved to the other side of the table and sat. 

"Let me carve." His knife stopped in mid-air as he surveyed the damage she had already done to the chicken and the food piled high on her plate. 

"Help yourself." She looked at him innocently and attempted not to moan at first bite of tender meat and mouth-watering sauce. Well, she might as well abscond on a full stomach.

They ate in companionable silence. Rather she ate, her mouth preoccupied with the delectable masterpiece he had prepared for her. Finally, she pushed her plate aside and turned her attention to the chef, also delectable she noted, the firelight behind her reflecting on the gold in his hair and accentuating the fine line of his cheekbones and strong set of his jaw. If only he were a carpenter or maybe a blacksmith, she would run her fingers through those disheveled locks and pull him toward her until his lips met her own, the raging fire and glowing metal a mere backdrop to the passion they would…. _Stop!_ Stop right there and use your muddled brain. He was handsome and he could cook. So what? He was still a nobleman _and_ an obstacle to her goals. A nobleman who had cooked a meal he thought she might like. No man had shown her such consideration and gone to such trouble for her. Abruptly she stood, grabbed their plates, crossed the room and tossed them in the washbasin. 

"Maxine. Sit down. This meal is for you."

Damn him, if he kept treating her like this she would have no choice but to grab one of the iron pots hanging on the wall and brain him right where he sat. He wasn't going to distract her, she had endured her miserable poverty stricken subservient lot for too long to let him rob her of her only way out. She stood, her back toward him, and attempted to regain her composure. Her fingers gripped the worktable and her eyes alighted on the freshly washed bowl of strawberries.

"Dessert?" Her voice only wobbled slightly as she walked back to her seat and set the bowl between them in the center of the dining table. Slowly she set her fingertips on one of the berries and brought it to her mouth. Her lips parted and her tongue tasted the succulent flesh. As she opened her mouth further and slowly bit into the fruit she watched his eyes grow darker and heard the catch in his breath. She smiled. He was just another man, and she knew how to deal with men.

" It's getting late. I really should go and …the horses…I should tend to the horses."

She hated him; hated every chivalrous bone in his considerate body. "The stable boys will settle the horses for the night. You have other concerns."

"I do?"

"Tonight, I make the decisions. Remember?" He was looking at her like he didn't remember his name. Damn, she was good.

Max rose and sauntered around the table, her petticoats swishing gently with every seductive swing of her hips. Her arm almost brushed his chest as she plucked another strawberry from the bowl. Smiling at the slight tremor of his body, she sidled her bottom onto the table next to him. 

"Looks delicious." She took a bite and ran her tongue over her lips. "Want a taste?" 

"Maxine, I should go or I will do something we will both regret later."

"My regrets are my own to make and I will decide if you go or stay, for tonight at least."

"And after tonight? I can offer you no future, can give you nothing you want."

"I decide what I want. Not you. You are too accustomed to being lord of the manor and have everyone bow to _your_ wishes." She didn't have to feign the anger in her voice and with an effort softened her tone. "I want nothing from you except what I ask for now. Or am I too lowly to deserve a will of my own?" Her heart was pounding as he stood and faced her. She was angry she told herself; her heart always pounded when she was angry.

His mouth was gentle on hers, as if sampling the sweetness of the ripe fruit. Pulling back, he took the strawberry from her fingers, and traced it lightly over her lips, before kissing her slowly again. She felt unexpectedly disappointed as he drew back to search her eyes with his. "You're so beautiful Max, this fruit is but a tasteless morsel compare to the sweetness of your lips." Empty flattery; this she could handle. He was just another smooth talking man out for what he could take for himself. 

He traced the luscious fruit down the side of her neck and followed with his tongue, his soft kisses accompanied by the rapid beating of her heart. Must be the thought of all those diamonds and rubies only a trip upstairs and a strategically placed blow to the head away.

His lips were now in pursuit of the fruit as it glided across the swell of her bosom above her bodice. She took a shaky breath as his tongue found her cleavage and then resumed its journey across the rise of her other breast. His hands encircled her waist and she guided his fingers to the ribbons of the bodice. No room for error now, she had to make sure he was securely in her grasp before she suggested they retire to his boudoir. He eased the bodice off until the only obstruction between him and her tingling breasts was her linen shift. She had him exactly where she wanted him.

A firm hand eased the light fabric off her right shoulder and she felt the stubble of his light beard scrape across agonizingly sensitive skin. She moaned as his tongue caressed her exposed nipple. Now was the time to mention a change in location--just as soon as he stopped doing whatever he was doing. Her back arched involuntarily as his hand cupped her other breast through the soft material and his fingers assaulted her taut nipple. She moaned softly again, this job had better be worth all the effort she was putting into this seduction.

Max was breathless by the time his other hand tangled in her hair as it came softly around the back of her neck and he pulled her into a kiss. She was about to take advantage of the removal of his lips from her naked bosom and arrange for their journey upstairs when he inconsiderately slipped his tongue into her open mouth. His strong arms were around her before she could retreat and say the words "comfortable bed." His fingers were loosening the ties to her petticoats and then, somehow, her hands were encircling his neck and she was lifting herself off the table as he slid the layers of clothing over her hips and down her thighs until the dropped softly to the floor. He sat her back down, while his tongue began winding a tantalizing trail toward her left ear.

"Master Logan, we should …"

Suddenly he stepped back and her body screamed at the loss of contact. 

"Master? I thought we were equals." His deep blue eyes burned into hers, but his anger failed to mask the desire in his voice. 

"T'is just habit…Logan." Logan. His name felt soft on her lips, familiar and easy. She smiled and watched him intently as his eyes shifted from hers and seemed to envelope her body. Self consciously, she covered her breasts with her hands and felt the blood rise in her checks. 

His hands were soft on hers, tender and careful, as if handling something precious and fragile. Her mouth opened in response as his lips brushed hers and suddenly she was loosing herself in the passion of their kiss. Finally, his lips left hers and commenced a trail of kisses down her neck while his hands disentangled from hers and found the hem of her shift. 

He slid the garment gently up her calves to her knees and stopped. She could hear his ragged breathing as he leaned his forehead against hers and whispered huskily, "Are you sure, Max?"

She gasped, as his voice caressed her name; claimed knowledge of it and her and filled her with an unfamiliar warmth.

"I'm sure." Sure this was absolutely a very, very bad idea and equally sure that if he stopped touching her now her body would shrivel up like a prune until it imploded into nothingness. 

Again her arms encircled his neck and she lifted as his hands guided her only remaining garment up her body, his fingers brushing the inside of her thighs. Softly he pushed the shift up over her hips, his fingers slowly gliding over the dampness between her legs until she moaned deeply, her whole body shuddering with desire. She released her arms as he pulled the shift over her head. 

His hand supported the small of her back as he carefully pressed her toward the table while they kissed. She leaned back on her elbows, her back arching as his tongue again found one nipple, then the other. Then his kisses were winding their way down her body, pausing as they encircled her belly button, only to continue down her abdomen. She could fell the warm of the fire on her face and breasts as she curved her body back and her hair fell away from her face. His hands were under her buttocks, lifting her toward him, his fingers no longer shy of their prize. If she had been capable of thought she would have been conscious of his tongue exploring her and discovering the secrets to a pleasure that consumed every portion of her being.

"Logan!" Her voice seemed very far away, but the name was close, part of her; tangled in the rapid beating of her heart until the world became just the two of them and she wanted nothing, nothing but him.


End file.
